The Grave's a Fine and Private Place by Alan Bradley

Source of book: I own this.

Alan Bradley’s Flavia de Luce books need to be read in order, or they make no sense. They are intended to be, in addition to murder mysteries, a story of the de Luce family, and later books assume you know the details from the earlier ones. Conveniently, I started reading the series shortly after starting this blog, so you can read them in order and then read my thoughts on each book. Here they are in order:

The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag

A Red Herring Without Mustard

I Am Half-Sick of Shadows

Speaking From Among the Bones

The Dead In Their Vaulted Arches

As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust

Thrice the Brinded Cat Hath Mew’d

The Grave’s a Fine and Private Place is therefore the ninth installment. After the original, Bradley contracted to write a total of seven, then extended it to ten. I have no seen any further news, so the next might well be the last. And, after all, Bradley is age 81, having taken up novel writing in his retirement. 

This book picks up soon after the end of the last one. Flavia is now officially an orphan, after the death of her father. (Her mother died shortly after her birth.) Along with her older sisters, Ophelia and Daphne, she is on a vacation planned by her family’s faithful servant Dogger. Rather than her hometown of Bishop’s Lacey, Flavia gets to solve a mystery in a different (although somewhat similar) small post-war British village. Well, four murders, actually. 

While enjoying a pleasant fishing excursion, Flavia manages to catch a body - a young actor named Orlando. It turns out he is the son of the late vicar - who was hanged for the murder of three gossipy women who were snidely referred to as the “three graces.” 

There are plenty of possible suspects, of course. And a lot of skeletons in the closets of more than a few people. 

This being a murder mystery, I won’t go any further than that. 

I wouldn’t mind mentioning a few details, however. As in the other books, Bradley’s love for literature and music are apparent. A minor character complains about Daphne, saying that you can’t trust a person who reads Trollope. I obviously disagree with this assessment - and I suspect Bradley does too, since he manages to get a mention of this underrated Victorian author into most of the books. 

Another fitting book reference comes from Dogger, quoting Milton’s Areopagitica.

“A good book is the precious lifeblood of a master spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life.”

The musical selections are always interesting too: not too obscure, but not exactly mainstream either. Rather, they are the sort of works that Classical buffs know and love, and that might be passingly familiar to everyone else. 

In this case, Bradley uses Bach’s The Art of the Fugue. Clocking in at about an hour and fifteen minutes, it serves to give Flavia a window of time to do some sleuthing. 

While these books aren’t exactly high literature, Bradley does write well. I find them a cut about typical genre fiction. 

I should mention a couple of witty lines I liked. This one is courtesy of Mrs. Dandyman, the proprietor of the circus, allegedly quoting the late vicar. 

“There’s nothing so deadly as an acid tongue driven by a pious mind.” 

True that. 

And finally, a line from Flavia herself, who makes an educated assumption, and wins a gasp from the new vicar. 

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Feminine intuition,” I replied. Which was an outright lie. Feminine intuition is no more than an acceptable excuse for female brains.” 

Very true indeed. It can’t be that women are as smart (and often smarter) than men, right? It has to be some mysterious “intuition” they are born with, rather than that. And Flavia is both smart and observant, two traits which are necessary to make a good sleuth. 

I had fun with this light, quick read. But definitely start at the beginning.

***

How about a bit of Bach? 

Thrice the Brinded Cat Hath Mew'd by Alan Bradley

Source of book: I own this.

This is the eighth book in Alan Bradley’s Flavia series. Here are the others:

The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag

A Red Herring Without Mustard

I Am Half-Sick of Shadows

Speaking From Among the Bones

The Dead In Their Vaulted Arches

As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust

As I noted in the very first review, Alan Bradley turned to writing fiction late in life. The first six books were part of his original contract, which has now been extended after the significant success of the first books. I strongly recommend reading both the books and my reviews in order, as the later ones assume the earlier ones.

Like all the books in the series, this one has its title taken from a line in an old book. This one continues in the Shakespearean vein with a well known quote from the Scottish play.

Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd.

Thrice and once the hedge-pig whined.

Harpier cries 'Tis time, 'tis time.

Round about the cauldron go;

In the poison'd entrails throw.

Toad, that under cold stone

Days and nights has thirty-one

Swelter'd venom sleeping got,

Boil thou first i' the charmed pot.

Double, double toil and trouble;

Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

Fillet of a fenny snake,

In the cauldron boil and bake;

Eye of newt and toe of frog,

Wool of bat and tongue of dog,

Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,

Lizard's leg and owlet's wing,

For a charm of powerful trouble,

Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

Double, double toil and trouble;

Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,

Witches' mummy, maw and gulf

Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark,

Root of hemlock digg'd i' the dark,

Liver of blaspheming Jew,

Gall of goat, and slips of yew

Silver'd in the moon's eclipse,

Nose of Turk and Tartar's lips,

Finger of birth-strangled babe

Ditch-deliver'd by a drab,

Make the gruel thick and slab:

Add thereto a tiger's chaudron,

For the ingredients of our cauldron.

Double, double toil and trouble;

Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Anyway, this quote gives the book its title, and a few other details. (A cat, a woman who fosters rumors she is a witch.)

Since the last book, Flavia has returned from a rather awful sojourn in Canada, only to find her father deathly ill. Soon afterward, while running an errand for the vicar’s wife, she discovers yet another dead body. (Well, this is a murder mystery series…) In this case, the victim is an old wood carver with a mysterious past, who apparently has some sort of connection to the (fictitious) children’s author Oliver Inchbald.

I did a little poking around regarding this character, and while he is definitely fictitious, he is a bit of a tribute to real-life authors. I would list perhaps Edward Lear (for the nonsense verse) and A. A. Milne (for the Christopher Robin type son.) But Google moves in mysterious ways, and I think I discovered where the name “Oliver Inchbald” came from. I perhaps don’t need to introduce author Oliver Goldsmith, best known for The Vicar of Wakefield. But the other half of the name appears to come from actress and playwright Elizabeth Inchbald. It appears that back in the day, among her other projects, she provided the “critical and biographical notes” to a collection of plays, including Goldsmith’s She Stoops to Conquer and The Good Natured Man. I suspect Bradley saw this somewhere and decided it was a perfect name. And it is.

The previous book was really quite dark - the series has generally gotten darker as it has gone on. This one isn’t exactly light, but the emotional territory isn’t as unrelentingly negative. Flavia is, after all, back on her home turf, and thus surrounded by familiar people. Dogger, her sisters, the vicar and his wife, her frenemy the police inspector. So she doesn’t feel as forlorn and alone as she did in the prior books. That said, all of the bad things happening in her life are still there, with more added. I’m still not sure how I feel about all of this - there was something charming and more innocent about the earlier books that I miss. But it has also been fascinating to see Flavia struggle with growing up. While she was always independent, she has had to learn some self control and social niceties - and she is getting there.

Just a few quotes I liked. One is when Flavia visits the office of the publisher of Inchbald’s books:

“Not surprisingly, his office was like a cave carved into a cliff of books.”

I plead the fifth as to how much I resemble that remark.

Regarding growing up and gaining independence:

“Growing up is like that, I suppose: The strings fall away and you’re left standing on your own.”

Regarding a sudden burst of communication from her reticent middle sister:

It was a longer speech than I’d ever heard Daffy make in my entire life. Unless she was reading aloud to us from one of her favorite books, my sister was the kind of person who is sometimes described as “monosyllabic.”

Actually, my middle daughter is kind of like that right now.

I will also note with approval the mention of Gorgonians. Because those are cool.

There is one more book in the series that has been published, and the contract runs for one more after that. Given Bradley’s age - this was a second career after retirement - he may decide to hang it up. But who knows? He originally agreed to six, and then ten, so things could change.

As I noted above, best to read these in order. They are kind of quirky, bookish, and snarky. But they are fun as a light read.

As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust by Alan Bradley

Source of book: I own this

I don’t read too many series books, in part because I could easily fill my reading schedule up with them alone, and never get to other stuff. However, there are arguably six series that I do follow. Two are kind of wobbly as to whether they fit the definition (Anthony Trollope’s Chronicles of Barchester series and something by P. G. Wodehouse each year.), but the other four definitely qualify. Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey and Maturin series has long been one of my favorites. I am two books into C. J. Sansom’s Shardlake series, and have greatly enjoyed it so far. My kids insist that we listen to Alexander McCall Smith's excellent Mma. Ramotswe series on audiobook when we travel - although we have done them completely out of order. The other series is the Flavia series by Alan Bradley, of which As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust is the seventh. Here are the others:

The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag

A Red Herring Without Mustard

I Am Half-Sick of Shadows

Speaking From Among the Bones

The Dead In Their Vaulted Arches

As I noted in the very first review, Alan Bradley turned to writing fiction late in life. The first six books were part of his original contract, which has now been extended after the significant success of the first books. I strongly recommend reading both the books and my reviews in order, as the later ones assume the earlier ones.

Like all the books in the series, this one has its title taken from a line in an old book. The full quote, from Shakespeare’s Cymbeline (one of the plays I haven’t seen) is a song for a dead character. (I didn’t read the entire play to figure out what was going on - maybe some day…)

FEAR no more the heat o’ the sun,

 Nor the furious winter’s rages;

Thou thy worldly task hast done,

 Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages;

Golden lads and girls all must,

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o’ the great,

 Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke;

Care no more to clothe and eat;

 To thee the reed is as the oak:

The sceptre, learning, physic, must

All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,

 Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;

Fear not slander, censure rash;

 Thou hast finish’d joy and moan:

All lovers young, all lovers must

Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!

 Nor no witchcraft charm thee!

Ghost unlaid forbear thee!

 Nothing ill come near thee!

Quiet consummation have;

And renownèd be thy grave!

The choice of title also refers to the fact that the corpse that sets the plot in motion is discovered in a chimney.

The last few books have been significantly darker than the earlier books, which had more whimsy and fun. In part, what has happened is that Flavia herself is growing up, and having to deal with much more adult situations. But also, Bradley is taking the stories to a darker place in general. Whether this is a good development is debatable, and the Amazon reviews show a sharp split in opinion.

As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust is also unusual in that it is not set in the sleepy village of Bishop’s Lacey, but in a strict girl’s academy in Canada. Thus, Flavia is adrift from her roots, and none of the familiar characters enters the story in any significant way. This is too bad, in my opinion, as the supporting cast was a lot of the fun. Dodger, and the semi-wicked step-sisters, and the vicar and his wife, and the inspector as Flavia’s frenemy. Most notably absent in this book is any comic relief. I think it could have used a bit of humor to relieve the tension.

On the other hand, I think the story itself works well, and Bradley keeps the reader as off guard as he does his protagonist. Nobody is who they seem to be, and everyone has secrets. Since this book continues the plot twist from the last book - that Flavia’s mother was involved in a secret quasi-government spy society - Flavia is now embroiled in that world, even if she doesn’t know who is in or out, or on her side or not. This is a definite change from the earlier books, which had a Miss Marple meets Nancy Drew sort of feel to them. I am curious to see where Bradley takes the series next. Will Flavia’s return to England mean a return the series’ roots, or has everything changed too much? I hope we at least get the old characters back, because the new ones in this book tended more toward the sinister than the likeable.

Still, not a bad book, and a nice diversion, as a murder mystery should be. Start this series at the beginning, and enjoy.

The Dead in Their Vaulted Arches by Alan Bradley

Source of book: I own this   

This is book six in Alan Bradley’s Flavia De Luce series. Previous books:

The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag

A Red Herring Without Mustard

I Am Half-Sick of Shadows

Speaking From Among the Bones

I recommend reading all of my reviews of this series in order, as I do not repeat common information for each installment. 

The previous book ended with a cliffhanger: Flavia’s long lost mother has been found. Or, at least her body has been found. After ten years missing on a glacier, nobody expected her to be alive. But this still makes a difference, as her disappearance has tied up the family estate, clouding the title, and causing unending financial troubles for Flavia’s father.

However, mystery remains. What was Harriet doing a world away from her infant daughter? And why did Winston Churchill himself come to bid her adieu?

Unlike the previous installments, there is precious little detection by Flavia. Instead, her explorations are as much internal as external. She is the spitting image of her mother - mentally as well as physically, but she doesn’t quite know what to do with that. (Well, at 11, which of us did?) Flavia too must work through her grief, which is difficult, because she never knew her mother. She does not grieve therefore because of what she lost, but because of what she never had and never will have - an entirely different experience. This is compounded by the fact that she is expected to show the “correct” signs of grief, as determined by English post-war society. Unlike her eldest sister, she lacks the social graces to pull this off.

In the earlier books, she is able to come through in the end with a solution, but in this one, her best attempts at a miracle are doomed from the outset. She can solve the mystery, but the past cannot be undone.

It is weird to think of this as a “dark” installment in the series, because murder mysteries are, in most cases, dark by definition. So I won’t call this book dark, except in the sense that Flavia for the first time has to face an inner darkness. She has felt fear before: but that is a vivid emotion, full of life. Grief is dull and the pain tends toward death rather than life. The relatively innocent and buoyant Flavia is missing in this book, but there is the promise of a rebirth. She will be more seasoned, perhaps, and not so youthful. But she will return with her sense of destiny and calling sharper than ever.

One of the things I like about this series is that Bradley has steadfastly resisted the temptation to make them boilerplate mysteries. The first one fits the pattern pretty well, but each subsequent installment has delved deeper into the characters, fleshing out the other inhabitants of the village, and bringing nuance to Flavia’s father and sisters. No, these books aren’t exactly Trollope, although Bradley name checks him enough. But given the shorter format and the need to fulfil his contractual obligations, he has done a fine job of elevating them above the usual genre fiction.

Bradley always puts in a few details that I find amusing. In many cases, he puts a fun spin on cliches. In one case, he uses “hen’s dentures” instead of the more familiar idiom. 

The titles of the books all come from literature, often poetry of the 17th or 18th Centuries. This book, like the previous one, comes from Thomas Parnell’s “A Night-Piece on Death.” I quoted the poem in its entirety in that review because it is delicious. I recommend reading it.

I’m also an airplane buff, so it was fun to see an appearance of the Gypsy Moth in this book. Harriet’s plane has been mentioned a few times, but Flavia gets a chance to experience it for herself. There are a number of these still around and in flying condition, although I have only seen a static display. Pretty slick aircraft, though.

As a musician, I have found in several of the books some interesting references. Flavia’s eldest sister Ophelia is a talented pianist and organist, and, like many of us buries herself in her art when stressed. Bradley knows enough of the repertoire to insert some appropriate - and often interesting - works. (I mentioned in my review of A Red Herring Without Mustard that Ophelia plays Schubert’s B Flat Sonata - a calm piece - when she is agitated.)

Music is at the center of this book, with the rousing ditty “Ta-ra-ra BOOM-de-ay” playing a central role. But there are two others that warrant mentioning as well.

Ophelia also chooses two familiar and poignant works during the course of the book. The slow movement of Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata, and the 18th variation from Variations on a Theme of Paganini by Rachmaninov.

We classical musicians can simply read the names and hear the immortal tunes in our heads. And these are excellent choices, I must say. Enjoy.

Speaking From Among the Bones by Alan Bradley

Source of book: I own this

This is the fifth book in Alan Bradley’s Flavia series. If you aren’t familiar with the author, I recommend you read my prior reviews.

The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag

A Red Herring Without Mustard

I Am Half-Sick of Shadows

After his first book became a hit, Bradley signed on for an additional five. I am informed that he has now committed to four more, for a total of ten. Since Bradley was already 71 when the first book was published in 2009, it remains to be seen how long he will continue to write. I am still impressed by his success in his second career. Apparently 70 is just a number for some. 

Although all of the Flavia books are enjoyable and well written - for murder mysteries - I think that this one is particularly good. It has plenty of creeping about in dark passageways at night, and continuing deepening of the characters and their relationships. We learn some of the sad past of the vicar and his eccentric wife, while Flavia and her oldest sister begin to relate on a more mature level, even as they continue to bicker.

My only quibble with the series is that there seems so much more that could be explored, if only the books were allowed to be longer. Alas, I may be one of the few that still loves books with 600 pages of small print, and the sprawling worlds that can be contained within them. Bradley does a great job with the space he has, making the words count. His plots are never as intricate as, say, Agatha Christie’s, but the words he might have used for plot twists instead flesh out the small village of Bishop’s Lacey and the familiar, yet more complex characters that inhabit it.

A couple of amusing lines stood out. When Flavia's oldest sister becomes engaged - but won't say to whom - Flavia imagines it might be to a young policeman. She images that evenings in the family might be filled with, "Guts, gore, and Tetley's Tea."

Another comes when she eschews false modesty, with the thought, "No point in wasting time with false vanity when you possess the real thing."

As with previous installments, both music and literature are woven into the fabric of the story. The music is all church organ music, as the hapless victim is the one-time church organist. Literary references abound. (Bradley won my heart early on with a particularly delicious reference to one of Anthony Trollope’s books.)

The title itself comes from a poem by Thomas Parnell, one of the so-called “Graveyard Poets,” pre-romantics who were fascinated with mortality and its symbolism. (The best known were William Cowper and Oliver Goldsmith.)

A Night-Piece on Death

By the blue taper's trembling light,

No more I waste the wakeful night,

Intent with endless view to pore

The schoolmen and the sages o'er:

Their books from wisdom widely stray,

Or point at best the longest way.

I'll seek a readier path, and go

Where wisdom's surely taught below.

  How deep yon azure dyes the sky,

Where orbs of gold unnumbered lie,

While through their ranks in silver pride

The nether crescent seems to glide.

The slumb'ring breeze forgets to breathe,

The lake is smooth and clear beneath,

Where once again the spangled show

Descends to meet our eyes below.

The grounds, which on the right aspire,

In dimness from the view retire:

The left presents a place of graves,

Whose wall the silent water laves.

That steeple guides thy doubtful sight

Among the livid gleams of night.

There pass, with melancholy state,

By all the solemn heaps of fate,

And think, as softly-sad you tread

Above the venerable dead,

"Time was, like thee they life possessed,

And time shall be, that thou shalt rest."

  Those graves, with bending osier bound,

That nameless heave the crumpled ground,

Quick to the glancing thought disclose

Where Toil and Poverty repose.

  The flat smooth stones that bear a name,

The chisel's slender help to fame

(Which ere our set of friends decay

Their frequent steps may wear away),

A middle race of mortals own,

Men, half ambitious, all unknown.

  The marble tombs that rise on high,

Whose dead in vaulted arches lie,

Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones,

Arms, angels, epitaphs and bones,

These (all the poor remains of state)

Adorn the rich, or praise the great;

Who, while on earth in fame they live,

Are senseless of the fame they give.

  Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades,

The bursting earth unveils the shades!

All slow and wan, and wrapped with shrouds,

They rise in visionary crowds,

And all with sober accent cry,

"Think, mortal, what it is to die."

  Now from yon black and fun'ral yew,

That bathes the charnel-house with dew,

Methinks I hear a voice begin

(Ye ravens, cease your croaking din,

Ye tolling clocks, no time resound

O'er the long lake and midnight ground);

It sends a peal of hollow groans,

Thus speaking from among the bones.

  "When men my scythe and darts supply,

How great a King of Fears am I!

They view me like the last of things:

They make, and then they dread, my stings.

Fools! if you less provoked your fears,

No more my spectre-form appears.

Death's but a path that must be trod,

If man would ever pass to God;

A port of calms, a state of ease

From the rough rage of swelling seas.

  "Why then thy flowing sable stoles,

Deep pendant cypress, mourning poles,

Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds,

Long palls, drawn hearses, covered steeds,

And plumes of black, that, as they tread,

Nod o'er the scutcheons of the dead?

  "Nor can the parted body know,

Nor wants the soul, these forms of woe.

As men who long in prison dwell,

With lamps that glimmer round the cell,

Whene'er their suffering years are run,

Spring forth to greet the glitt'ring sun:

Such joy, though far transcending sense,

Have pious souls at parting hence.

On earth, and in the body placed,

A few, and evil, years they waste;

But when their chains are cast aside,

See the glad scene unfolding wide,

Clap the glad wing, and tow'r away,

And mingle with the blaze of day."